


sea-dark and just as vast

by elfloversanonymous (asexuelf)



Series: Femdom Pussy Indulgence [11]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: BDSM, Background Anders/Fenris/Hawke/Isabela/Merrill, Background Polyamory, Consensual Kink, Dom Isabela (Dragon Age), F/M, Femdom, Kink Negotiation, No Smut, Past Abuse, Past Slavery, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Safeword Use, Safewords, Sub Fenris (Dragon Age), Trans Fenris (Dragon Age), Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23480845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asexuelf/pseuds/elfloversanonymous
Summary: Fenris knows what he wants and he knows what he needs as much as he knows Isabela is the only one that can give it to him.(Or: Fenris gets a little carried away.)
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age), Fenris/Isabela
Series: Femdom Pussy Indulgence [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1550845
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	sea-dark and just as vast

**Author's Note:**

> o_O this has apparently been in the works since 2018... wowsers
> 
> hope you enjoy!

Fenris isn’t sure this is a good idea.

He thinks that every time Isabela suggests something new, however. Spanking, caning, figging; all of it filled him with a deep apprehension, an anxiety that slowly but surely made its way to his groin. The curiosity would always be too much, the desire for her and the trust he has in her both far too strong to overcome.

This time though the suggestion doesn’t come from Isabela. And Fenris isn’t certain he is capable of it.

Isabela is everything Fenris has ever desired; she is freedom incarnate in the shape of a beautiful, hilarious, sweet, and deadly woman. He loves her completely. He _trusts_ her completely. He’s never trusted anyone like this, not even Danarius. Even when all he was belonged to Danarius, he always felt fear, always knew there was something dim and painful waiting for him each new day.

With Isabela, even pain is delightful. Surprises with Danarius became traumas that haunt Fenris’ nightmares even now, more than a decade later. Isabela’s surprises become treasured memories, things he holds dear to his chest and craves and craves and craves.

But still, he thinks, to give himself so freely, to put himself entirely at Isabela’s mercy…

The more he thinks about it, the harder it is to find reasons to decline.

She never pressures him with this. He appreciates that about their arrangement. She will tell him something fun she’d like to try, in a tone so casual he can only guess how long she spends crafting the words she knows he wants to hear, and then she’ll leave it at that, letting him come to her.

It’s the part of the game that makes it all _work._

He’s not sure he can come to her for this particular suggestion however, namely because it’s something _he_ thought of. Not to mention the fear it makes him feel just to think of it. His groin throbs and he grows short of breath, aching, every time he thinks of it, and yet feels Danarius’ gaze along with it. It makes him sick.

Fenris wants her. He wants to be entirely hers, just for a night. He wants to be at her mercy, not just in body but in mind and soul.

He does not want to belong to anyone ever again. But she already has his heart and he finds himself desperate to hand over the rest.

Just for a night.

He has no idea how to tell her this.

*

The opportunity comes days later, when they’re lying in bed together, too tired from fighting and killing for anything more creative than a handsy nap. He’s lying beneath her, her comfortable weight atop him, pressing him into the mattress so enchantingly that he grows wet. The captivating touch of her wandering hands only furthers his desires. Quickly, he finds himself in need, kissing desperately at her jaw, her chin, her lips.

“I want you,” he whispers into her mouth.

He feels her as she smiles. Her hands rove down, fingertips sending sparks across his skin down to thud his heartbeat through his groin before he shakes his head.

“Wait,” he tries again. His voice is haltering even in his breathlessness and he cringes at the sound. “I mean to say that I… have something I want. If you’d be willing.”

He can see her in the dark, staring back at him with an intrigued expression. She looks pleasantly surprised, even delighted, like he’s just gifted her with another funny bauble or made a particularly crude joke. She looks beautiful.

“I want you to put me under.”

Now her face folds in confusion, although the sweet smile doesn’t quite fall. “As in, to sleep?”

“No! I-” He sighs, cursing under his breath. “It is… complicated. I want to…”

He cannot seem to find the words. Proving again how much she _deserves_ this devotion, she waits patiently as he searches his mind, absentmindedly painting circles across his abdomen with a gentle finger.

When he cannot find the words still, she leans forward to press a kiss to his breast. “Don’t think so hard about it, maybe. Just tell me what you want to feel.”

Feeling his face heat and his bottom lip quiver, he finds himself grateful suddenly that she is human and can only partially see him in the dark. He blinks up at the ceiling and replies, “Abandon. I… want to abandon myself entirely and be only at your mercy. I- I want to be put so thoroughly in my place as your possession that I can hardly spare a thought. I-” He swallows, unable to continue. He does not look at her face, for fear of what he may find there.

For a time, the room is very quiet. If it were not for the weight of her against him, still and unbreathing as the gears of her mind turn, he might think she has fallen asleep.

Finally, she says, “Fenris.”

He looks at her.

“That is… a bit more involved than we usually play. We’d need to do a _lot_ of communicating beforehan-”

“No,” he says, and before she can argue, surges onward. “I want you to put me under so deep that- that even if I need to watchword, I cannot.”

Sweat threatens to break through his skin. Her hand is still now, no longer touching him, and although he now stares at her face, searching, he cannot tell what she is thinking.

“Please, Isabela.”

When Isabela’s face grows thoughtful, he relaxes, knowing she can feel the way he falls limp beneath her. “That’s quite dangerous, Fenris. Especially with your history-”

“You are worthy of it. I- I know you will not harm me any more than I wish you to.” He swallows again. “And I wish you to. I- Have your way with me. All of me.”

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think her eyes had gone teary. He watched her swallow and lick her lips, staring down at his chest in thought. He wondered what her thoughts might be like - does she desire it, too? Perhaps she is already mapping the night out, planning a night of violent play, working out the bits that may go wrong so as to better care for Fenris.

He wants to tell her that he knows the risks, that he understands. He wants _her_ to understand why he needs this so badly, why he wants so desperately, for just one night, to be her-

To be her slave.

He shakes that thought away. Not her _slave_ , not really. Simply _hers_.

He remembers Danarius handing him his own leash, the way the man’s cold laugh had sounded across the room as his wolf walked itself, following ever-faithfully at his heel. He remembers the weight of those expensive, bejeweled collars, so tight around his throat he could barely swallow, could barely breathe, and the short lead that attached to them. He remembers it and hates it, hates Danarius, hates himself.

He wants to hand the lead to Isabela, and when she hands it back, he wants to destroy it.

There is only so much he has ever been able to take from Danarius. He wants to take this. He wants to steal away all the awful, terrible things Danarius has made him fear and turn them into new things. He wants to heal.

Isabela is the only one he trusts with this.

Not even their other lovers - not even Hawke. No one else. For all the love he has in him, only Isabela can hollow him out. Only Isabela can set the blight-sick field ablaze. And he knows, in some fragile, tender part of himself, that only Isabela can help that land grow life again.

The way Isabela puts her hand on his throat, the way she takes his cunt so roughly with her fingers, the way she bites his neck and shoulders and breasts. The way she does it so he feels _good,_ the way she does it for him as much as for herself.

Every hit of the cane is a gift from her, never a punishment. Every spank is a stinging declaration that she wants him. Every scratch of nails down his back, up his sides, across his thighs, is a reminder for him to come to later, a message that reads _I love you._

He does not know what gift he can give her to thank her for what she is, beyond himself. He only hopes that he is enough.

But then Isabela says, “No.”

Fenris is stricken, and knows it shows on his face. “Isabela-”

“No, Fenris,” He is startled to see that he was right about her teary eyes. Her face is wet, those usually guarded eyes glistening. “That you can trust me so much is-” She swallows a sob. “I love you. Maker, do I ever. But I’m not going to make you relive your time as a slave.”

“That’s not what I want, not really.” Comforting Isabela when she cries only upsets her further, but his heart breaks to see her. He gingerly wipes tears from her face. A part of him says _you should have kept quiet,_ but the rest of him - the parts Isabela has fostered in him - helps him continue, “I… I want to leave that life behind. One last night, with you, belonging to you and not myself or _Danarius_ , and then we go on with our usual games.”

She sucks air in through her nose, then coughs. “Oh, stop it! You’ll make me truly weep if you go on like that.”

He wants to apologize, but she drops her head down onto his shoulder, cuddling close. “I’m not rejecting you. Just… We need to be safe if we do anything like that.” Her sigh is hot against his skin. “There are people who play like that, you know. Live like that, too, consensually and freely. _Safely_. And I'm not one to judge. If we can figure out all the pieces… I’ll consider it. But, even though I like hitting you and making you desperate for more…”

He glances down in concern as her hot tears roll down his chest again. “Isabela?”

Her voice wavers. “I don’t want to hurt you. Not really. Just for fun, not for…” She sniffs again. “Not like he hurt you.”

“That’s why I want you to.” He holds her close, presses his nose into her sea-dark hair. “I know you aren’t like him. To be yours is… There is nothing greater in this world to be.”

She does weep properly then, leaking snot and tears all over her lover and blanket. When she’s done, she curls even tighter against him and sleeps. Although he'd like to follow behind, he finds himself instead gazing at the ceiling for too long into the night.

*

“Alright…” Isabela sighs. “Well, we can definitely put you in the mindset - but I don’t want you to see me as your Master or Mistress or anything like that.”

He shuffles his weight uncomfortably, digging himself further into the dusty loveseat. “Is that a hard rule?”

“Fenris!” Her eyes are wide with shock.

“I admit… I had considered calling you Master during the scene.” 

Shame fills him, but he’s with Isabela now. Isabela is shameless - not because she cannot feel shame, but because it is pointless to. If there is anything Fenris has learned from Isabela, it’s that if he wants to move on, he has to leave that shame behind and learn to _be_.

Isabela swallows, turning back to her notes. “Well… I suppose many people _do_ use Master and Mistress as fun terms. But I doubt those people were ever slaves in the traditional sense. The words don’t mean the same thing as they do for you.”

"Do not presume-" Annoyance flares through him. To forget it, Fenris shakes his head. “The words mean what they mean, Bela. With you, Master would mean _one who owns me._ One who- One who takes care of me. It would not be the disaster you are planning for.”

She does not hide her own annoyance. “We can’t know that! You haven’t had a flashback in a while, but that doesn’t mean you won’t get one. _Especially_ if you’re so far into that headspace."

She has a point. He concedes, “Perhaps. You… may be right. If not Master, then another term?”

“Why not-”

“Not Captain.” He says quickly. “Captain is… sacred. It’s separate from this.”

Isabela’s lips twitch. “Sacred? Captain Andraste, am I?”

He offers his own small smile. “You might as well be. I do so like to worship you.”

"Oh…" The sigh that leaves her is dreamy and affectionate. “You always say such wonderful things.”

His eyes find the floor as he smiles at the praise. Normally, he’d shoot her a retort, but they’ve been negotiating for a while now. He’s not under, not by a longshot, but he feels the desire to submit to her run strongly through him.

“Well, I suppose another word could work… I don’t know the word for _Master_ in any other language.” She wrinkles her nose. “I’m still a hard no with Qunari words, though. Sorry.”

He chuckles. “I do not want to call you anything in Qunlat. I know you wouldn't enjoy being a Tamassran."

"No, I wouldn't." The papers in her hands get another restless turning over. "Would just Ser work? Bit informal…"

Now it's Fenris' turn to crinkle his nose. "Ser is Anders. And sometimes me, if he wants it that way." He shakes his head, his long bangs falling about his face. "How is Domina? The term is Tevene, but it's long since fallen out of fashion. I've no foul memories attached to it."

Isabela gives him a Look.

"I have foul memories attached to everything," he concedes again. "You know what I mean."

And she does, so she tentatively writes it down. _Domina._ She looks down at the ink on the page with a strangely mirthless expression, her brow hard and her mouth a gentle line. It's so different from her usual gleeful sadism that he shivers.

Still, he asks her, "Are you alright?"

She waves a hand somewhat dismissively. "Of course I am." Leaning back in her chair causes her face to relax a bit, but it grows no less serious. "I worry for you, that's all. I'm… not sure if we can make this work."

"You don't have to." Though it breaks his heart to say it, it's true. "I don't mean to pressure you into something you're uncomfortable with."

"Well, that's the thing, isn't it? I'm not uncomfortable. Worried, yes. Cautious, yes. Both things I _never am,_ " The look she shoots him makes him smile behind his hand, but he keeps listening. "And yet, despite myself, it's… attractive. You all oiled up and kneeling, doing whatever I say."

He watches her convulse in some strange mixture of guilt and pleasure. "I want it, too."

"So you say…"

Fenris narrows his eyes at her, bringing his chin up for the first time since they began. "Stop this. I am no longer a victim and I am certainly not a child. I survived a lifetime of horror. Now I am a grown man, a _free_ man, with my own desires. I desire you in this way. Don't belittle me by insinuating I cannot know that."

Isabela blinks, and then relaxes, like a great weight has just come off her. "Shit. Sorry, handsome."

He lifts the corner of his mouth. "It happens." And it makes her smile, so it's worth it.

They talk a little more, but they're both tender, and quickly decide to take a break. They'll visit it again in a few days time, after they've both had more time to think about their needs.

*

Anders blinks in shock when he brings it up. "I didn't think you the type, love."

"The type?" Despite the now two years of being together, he still hasn't managed to keep the growl out of his voice.

Anders hits him with a pillow. "You know what I mean, you tit. We're hardly about to play Unwilling Mage And Cruel Templar, are we?"

He has a point, but Fenris disagrees. "Our relationship is different than mine and Isabela's. And it isn't about… _force_. It's about giving and receiving."

"That doesn't sound so different from us," he quips.

Fenris rolls his eyes, but can't stop his grin. "Not that kind of giving and receiving."

"Well… If you two are safe, then I'm not about to argue what you should and shouldn't do."

"Nor do I believe you should."

"It's not my place," Anders agrees. Not so rare a thing anymore, they both marvel. "But! It is my place to care for you, as well as Isabela. Would you want me there?"

Fenris shakes his head. "No, it's…" 

And how can he possibly explain it? How can he describe the need within him to take this barren land and throw the seeds of wildflowers again and again and again until something grows? How can he explain that Isabela is the only one that can bring a seed to sprout?

Luckily, Anders notices his turmoil and waves the whole conversation away.

"Ah, don't bother yourself with it. If you need me, you'll have me, but for now… Let's get it off your mind." He leans forward to press a gentle kiss to Fenris' cheek, then nose, then mouth. "How about we go for a picnic? I've got that cheese you like."

Fenris smiles. "Will you let me read to you?"

"As long as it isn't one of your boring history books," Another kiss. "Then I'm all for it."

*

In the end, he doesn't tell Anders anything more of the scene they have planned.

Not that there's much planning on Fenris' part. Isabela agreed to take the reins on this one, if at first a bit reluctantly. It seems odd, given her usual gleeful disposition towards gifting him wicked surprises, but not so odd he doesn't understand. 

After all, this is a bit more than nipple clamps or noise-cancelling earmuffs. Those things he can say no to. Tonight…

Tonight he won't be saying no at all.

As instructed, he's in one of the far bedrooms in the mansion - a room he never uses and has probably never been in more than twice since before clearing it out. He only imagines he was ever here at all because all the bookshelves were empty, likely relocated to his personal library, and there was a stain on the floor too violet in hue to have been blood. Too many of these rooms have met him drunkenly, but he supposes that comes with the territory of living in haunted halls.

It's a nice enough place to play, now that they've cleared it up. The broken tiling was removed and replaced by cheap carpeting and the window was repaired and covered by dark curtains. Those dark curtains are drawn now, letting the many candles' orange glow light the room alone, shining off the brass frame of the new bed and the shining knobs of the cabinet drawers.

He doesn't know what's in the cabinet. The table beside it is empty, except for candles. The bookshelf houses only emergency supplies, as well as bread, cheese, wine, and water, but other than that, is sparse. The cabinet, though… The cabinet is a mystery.

Isabela had shaken her head when he went to open it that first time. Whatever she filled those drawers with was not yet for him to know. He had imagined diabolical things, frightening things, painful things… All manner of delights. In the too-warm hue of the candlelight, though, it feels more ominous than exciting.

His stomach hurts. He swallows, closes his eyes, and focuses on how the rough new carpet feels against his knees. Usually kneeling makes him feel grounded. _Useful._ Small in all the best of ways. 

Now, all he feels is vulnerable.

_That's the point._ He breathes in, then out. He ignores the lessons Anders has taught him and doesn't count, just breathes in and out and in and out. _you're waiting for your Master. you're not supposed to be feeling good._

Isabela doesn't keep him waiting long. Soon enough, the door opens behind him, a slow creak of the hinges. They forgot to oil it in all the repairing, but it adds more than it subtracts - the sudden roiling in his gut, like a spider crawling up into his throat, certainly proves that much. It's been a long time since he felt this sick.

"Watchword?"

Fenris clenches his teeth. It's unfair of him, but he can't keep the irritation from twisting his mouth. _i don't have one, Master,_ he wants to say, as sharply as it takes to make her get the point. Instead, he breathes through his nose and answers, " _Malus,_ Master."

She's quiet for a moment. He hasn't called her that yet. He wasn't sure she'd agree when he pushed the second time, during that fourth time negotiating, but she did. She had nodded, face relaxed as if in sudden clarity, and had agreed.

Now he can hear her, still and silent, as if she's mulling it over. He isn't sure if he wants her to enjoy it or not.

Finally, "I know you don't want a watchword. I know that's the point, but…" 

Quiet again, for only a beat, until her heels ( _heels? how rare - she prefers much more sensible boots)_ click against the floor as she rounds for him to see her. That sick sensation rises again, but for what reason, he is unaware, especially when she's dressed so beautifically. 

Her dark breeches are straight-legged, high-waisted, and cut off just above the ankle, displaying heeled sandals. Although he doesn't allow his eyes to wander to her face - _a slave oughtn't look upon Her directly, unless She should demand it_ \- he can see the white blouse she's wearing, one of his favorites of her collection. She never buttons it all the way, allowing a fine amount of breasts on display in a way he has definitely teased both her and Varric over, although this time, her jewelry is missing.

Almost terrifyingly, her neck is bare.

He's never asked her over it, of course, but he knows that in Rivain, such jewelry denotes power. He'd honestly expected her to wear _more_ \- even Magisters are known to glitter more decadently when they believe the company calls for it. Instead, there is only an entire throat of brown skin bared to him, as if in some saccharine offering.

He isn't sure if it makes him feel more or less ill. Regardless, he decides he doesn't like it. Why is she making things difficult?

Her breeches disappear from view as she kneels - _kneels! what is She doing?_ \- until they are face to face. She cups his cheek with a ringless hand that he, startlingly, does not want to lean into, as he tries not to scowl.

"Look at me, my Fenris."

he doesn't meet Her eyes.

"I know you don't want a watchword. But I need you to understand… No matter what, even when you can't say no, it will always be an option. I love you."

He's quiet for a moment, but she doesn't move. He can see her blinking from the corner of his eye, her long lashes casting shadows against her cheeks. He doesn't want to look at her. He's afraid she'll look like a stranger in the dark.

His stomach is still sick. "I love you too," he whispers.

"Good." The hands snakes upward to gently finger through his hair. She's so obviously careful to ignore the markings on his forehead, it almost makes him angry. "Should we begin?"

That's not his decision to make. "Yes, Master," he whispers.

"That's all I needed to hear."

And then she kisses him. He waits for it to grow heated and messy, fighting his instincts to open his jaw to let her take the lead, but it doesn't. She kisses him again, just as gently as the last one, her lipstain a familiar tacky stick of their mouths. Over and over, she presses their lips together. Her hand in his hair never tightens, never pulls.

"Isabela," he murmurs. She pulls away only enough for him to speak. "Master, you're meant to be taking what you want from me."

"Oh, Fenris." He finally raises his eyes, confused and frustrated, to see her looking back, those dark brown eyes glistening even in the dim lighting. She is not a stranger. "All I want is this. You."

Something changes then. The sick feeling fades so easily and the anxiety in his chest cracks so suddenly that he finds himself weeping even as he drops his forehead to her shoulder with a wet laugh. "You're far cornier than anyone gives you credit for."

Above him, she sniffles. "I do that on purpose. They'll never let me live it down if I'm sweet all the time."

He isn't really sure who she's talking about, but he laughs wetly anyways. Then he just cries. He cries long and hard against her skin, the salt of his tears stinging in the lyrium scars on his chin and throat. He could tuck his face into the crisp linen of her shirt to avoid it, but the warmth of her is too great a comfort to ignore, and he buries his cheek against her breasts.

It's a strange feeling. So rarely does he cry, even after an emotionally exhausting scene - and this can hardly be considered a scene at all. No whips, no chains, not even the paddle he likes or the stinging wax he love-hates. Instead of feeling sore of bruised, he feels… he feels a bit like a near-bursting dam with a little hole in the center of it.

Not broken, really, just- _leaking._ He sobs against his (dom? lover? friend?) - his Isabela and feels it all leak out of him. Danarius, Hadriana, even Varania. All that loss, all that pain. The pain he keeps expecting, that lurking fear just under his skin that he never even notices anymore, seems to trickle through alongside it.

Not a dam leaking then. Just- a man being washed clean. As if by rain or something stronger. Some beast of a storm which has been raging for too damn long.

All the while, She shushes him, her hand gently weaving through his hair. Although his emotions shake him, she holds him steady. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised; she's a ship captain, after all. Isabela has weathered many storms - and though she's lost men to those hurricanes, she won't lose Fenris now. 

_Or ever_ , he thinks. For as long as she'll have him, he'll always be at her side. _Beside her_ , even when he's small and vulnerable and ill.

Her mouth is at his ear then, brushing gently against the slope of it as she asks him, "Do you still want to continue?"

He thinks about it, although he doesn't have to. Then he laughs again. " _Malus._ No. No, I don't wish to continue. Not with this."

"Oh, thank fuck." And then she pulls away, leaving his naked skin suddenly cold, only to flop backwards onto the carpet. When he leans forward to follow, his knees protest horribly. "I have no idea what I would have even done. I mean, Maker, Fenris…"

Despite his sticky joints, he's able to lie beside her. If he curls a little too closely against her, she doesn't protest. "Maker, what?"

"You looked… scared. You were so tense and sweating, like I've never seen. Even after a flashback or a nightmare…" A harsh swallow shakes her bare throat.

He's quiet. The words sink in, although he doesn't particularly want them to. "I'm sorry."

She rolls to face him, quiet without her jewelry to _tink_ and _clink_ together. Her hair is a sea of curls, bouncing away from her face and into it. "What ever for? _Ptegh-_ " The face she makes spitting hair out of her mouth relaxes him impossibly further.

"For… this. All of it. I- I got a bit carried away."

"No argument there." She barks a laugh. "And how rare for you to! You're usually the sensible one. I'm the one that jumps off the docks in my underwear."

"I still can't believe you did that." The memory warms his face, fills his chest with laughter.

"I still can't believe you let me do it _alone_. Spoilsport."

Fenris grins in guilty amusement. "I don't wear smalls. Remember?"

"No harm in skinny dipping!"

"That's not what the guards who found us said…"

"Ugh!" But she laughs too, deep and snorting. "You're so fuddy sometimes, I swear."

"I believe it's pronounced _funny_."

_This,_ he thinks, seeing her nose crinkle with her laughter, _is much better than the night we had planned._

She doesn't torture or torment him - at least, not with blade or blunt instrument. Instead, she _teases,_ like she so often does, laying on joke after joke, both mean-spirited and sweet-natured, until his cheeks hurt from smiling. He tries to keep up with his quips, but she has far more experience, and in the end, he makes do with anecdotes that she finds much more interesting than Anders ever does. It becomes a game to see who can name the strangest fact about any culture in Thedas. Mostly she uses it as an excuse to tease him even more, but it's fun for reasons other than that too.

And it isn't until the knocking at the door finally grows loud enough to reach them that they realize they've been talking well into the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for stopping by! 💖 feel free to drop me a kudos or a comment if you liked!


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